I’m setting this post up yesterday. Presuming that you are reading this today. That would be Wednesday because words! I have some. They are totally random because being hip-boots deep in edits and revisions does not lend a helping hand to starting something new and with no clue what will be the next project, I get weird when it comes to the Thursday Threads flash fiction challenge. I did manage to snag an honorable mention last week using the prompt: *”So that was how he ended his life.* Yeah. That’s quite the prompt, right? So, here’s what “scribble writing” produces sometimes.

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“So, that was how—”

“He ended his life.”

That statement fell into a well of silence as little ears had been straining to hear what the storyteller would say next. Now, they all stared round-eyed at the tall man with tattoos on his arms.

“Suicide?” The questioner remained out of sight beyond the doorway.

The stranger lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. The storyteller cleared her throat with a loud ahem. He very slowly turned his head, his gaze colliding with hers. She gestured to the semicircle of children, every head swiveled to watch him. His eyes narrowed. She gave him big eyes and a look that spoke volumes—What were you thinking?

A face appeared as the second man peeked around the door. “Oh, shit.”

That set the kids to giggling and the man had the good graces to redden. “Sorry, ma’am.”

A little girl tugged the storytellers skirt. “Whath’th thewthide?” Her two front teeth were missing.

The woman looked very solemn as she glared at the two men. “Perhaps you’d care to explain?”

“Not particularly, ma’am,” the tattooed stranger said with a roguish grin. “But I apologize for interrupting your story time.”

He stepped into the room, walked to the group and then hunkered down beside the little girl, which put him precariously close to the storyteller. “Suicide is a mystery, little darlin’. And sometimes a mercy.” His eyes met the storyteller’s. “And to finish the tale, that was how the Jack O’Lantern came to be.”

“You were listening.”

“I always listen when a pretty woman speaks.”
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Don’t ask me about the characters or the location, other than probably somewhere in Appalachia. The storyteller’s tale is one from the region. This might–or might NOT–end up in the far-down-the-list historical Moonstruck book. NO promises! Sometines, a writer just needs to scribble out some words that have no context. That’s part of the fun of flash fiction. You take the prompt, juggle the words and end up with a story within the prescribed word count. This one is restricted to 250 words. It’s tough but, like I said, it’s a way to clear the imaginations palate when the writer is between courses. And now I’m hungry. What’s for breakfast?